Remember that guy who wrote that book that Oprah thought she loved but then decided she hated when she learned that The Smoking Gun was on to the fact that all of what he wrote was not entirely true? Yeah?
Remember that guy who called himself a criminal on day time television and then retracted that statement, in part, in a sit down heart-to-heart in which he revealed that like the rest of us, he was mostly insecure and broken? Yeah. That book called a million little pieces by James Frey.
I bought it from the Thrift store this weekend for $.25. $.25!! The cover was ripped, likely, I assumed in holding it in my hands, because someone who owned it watched the interview and was outraged at the deception!! Or, not. Yeah. Likely that’s not why the cover was ripped and it smelled of cigarettes and bad cologne.
I picked it up and bought it because I wanted to see what the hype was about and why he (Frey) moved Oprah and millions of, mostly women, Americans.
I started reading it and am not finished with it, but I can’t say that I get what the big deal was (is). You know how when someone tells you something is really good and then you try it and then you, assuming that “it” is a cupcake, keep eating it waiting for it to get good. Because the first, second, and third bites aren’t that good. But you keep eating, waiting for that moment that you kept hearing about? That’s what this book is like for me.
It’s like a highly acclaimed cupcake that doesn’t really taste that great but that you keep eating because you are unwilling to trust yourself that the greats who said it would be good could be wrong.
It’s odd to me that it was picked up by Oprah at all. It’s odd that Oprah and so many other women were drawn to a story of an addict who was, in a sense, broken and unable to love and be loved. Wait. That’s actually not strange.
I get the whiff of romantic tragedy in reading A million little pieces. I get that it is gruesome, but beneath all that it’s a story of a guy who just wants to be loved, it seems, by himself and women. This tale need not be told as a true story, so why did it need to be a true story? Or does this just have to do with truth and the responsibility of writers in the age of “truthiness” to be truthful?
Have you read “a million little pieces” by James Frey? What did you think of the book?